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  • Writer's pictureDaizha Lankford

A Woman's Worth

Disclaimer: As a straight, black, woman, my perception of what it means to be a woman is definitely different than my other beautiful woman counterparts. But I hope you embrace it just the same.

Last night I went to Walmart.

I have a three-step process of going anywhere at night alone, and the first step usually involves not going at all.

But, nonetheless, I turned off my car, put my house key in my hand, kept my wallet and cellphone close and looked down as three men walked past me.

As I grabbed a cart and roamed through the aisles, I saw eyes stare at my body as if it was on display. My discomfort level raised slightly as it usually does when I am by myself.

Suddenly, as I was daydreaming and looking at hair products, a man, or for this definition, a boy, grazed my thigh and put his hands where only my back pocket should be.

See, the definition of why he’s a boy is the most important part of this conversation.

He was a boy because he felt entitled to something that wasn’t his.

He hissed at me as I slapped his hand. He started throwing a tantrum like a five-year-old as he discovered he was not grabbing on to what he thought was a toy.

He was grabbing the bottom, the “ass”, the parts of a WOMAN.

And a woman that didn’t belong to him at that.

As he looked surprised and amused that I’d “played hard to get.” I quickly reminded him that flattery is not shown in his unwanted touch, his piercing gaze, or his half-assed attempt at a compliment.

“I was just trying to see if I could get your number.”

Nigga, please.

It made me ask...

Does my body threaten you? Does my sex appeal make your self-control uncontrollable?

Do you get sexually conflicted and have boastful erections when my dress doesn’t have the longest hem?

My sincerest apologies.

My deepest regards for your toxic masculinity, making you think you’re excused from the basic action of treating me like I am a human being.

As if you could ever be entitled to MY body.

And see, it wasn’t that he was bad looking, or that his outfit wasn’t ironed… it was because he felt entitled to pieces of me before he even knew my first name.

He felt entitled to my information, my body, my interest… and if that doesn’t show you what he would think of me in any type of relationship, I don’t know what else will.

See, as a woman… I don’t want a boy.

And as this lovely holiday called Valentine’s Day approaches I think it’s imperative to remind myself and my fellow women that our worth is not defined by the thoughts, actions, alliances, or relationships with any boy or man.

In fact, our worth is rooted in who we are.

Not our accolades, not in how many flowers we get tomorrow, not in chocolate, or necklaces or jewelry. It’s all rooted in how we view ourselves.

Our bodies are temples. Meant to be cherished and meant to be sacred.

A woman is not just an accessory or something to be used.

A woman is the foundation in which the world builds itself on.

Yet, through all of that, we still can be approached by someone who feels our worth is rooted in them.

I say all of this to say as a woman… I know my worth is not in my thighs, or in the sway of my hips, it doesn’t stem from the color of my eyes or the fullness of my lips.

My worth is not seen by the clothes I wear or what style I wear my hair.

My worth is not how you define me.

My worth is in me.

Peace & Love D.

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